This experiment builds on my first two, except this is a bit more whimsical.

In order to sign up, you must post

a) a poetb) a pic of said poet (if available)c) >= four lines of poetry from said poet.

"Poet" for this purpose is loosely defined. So whatever floats your boat. Just gimme a name, a pic, and some lines. (Woo!)

Only one poet per person is allowed. First come, first served.

Oh, and I am thinking of a particular poet. If anyone quotes lines from that poet, he or she gets a special prize. (It's a good one!) HINT: It's not the poet I recently quoted in JTOR.

Rules:

1) Number of roles and what roles exist will not be revealed at game start.2) Quick phases: six hours for each. (The mod will do the best he can to oblige this.) 3) Votes are by PM: You can say anything (ANYTHING) you like in the game thread, but all votes you wish to be counted must be submitted to me via PM.4) After any kill, the role of the killed player will NOT be revealed.5) Players MUST post at least once during every day phase. Failure means modkill. ANY RPs which miss the deadline get modkilled.

A slug and a bird walked into a barA drunk villager was sitting not farThe bartender said, "hey, what will it be?"The slug and a bird said, "I'll have npv!"The slug grabbed his legs, the bird grabbed his headThe onlookers knew he soon would be deadThe slug ate his liver, the bird got his spleenNow who will you salt, on this, day thirteen?It's not day thirteen, I am well awareBut the rhyme for day twelve was simply not thereSo deal with this poem, twas done in a pinchAnd for the last time, mac, it's SALT, not LYNCH!!!

I met a traveller from an antique landWho said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert... Near them, on the sand,Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,Tell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.And on the pedestal these words appear --"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal wreck, boundless and bareThe lone and level sands stretch far away.'

I'm on my phone so I can't linky dink itTintern Abbey Nor, perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me, here, upon the banks Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend,

canaan wrote:i did a 20+ page paper/presentation on robert burns in college--that ish was cash

What college did he go to?

Depends on your definition of education. It could be said that he graduated from the school of hard knocks. You could also say that he was alum of his father's moral education or John Murdoch's adventure school. My opinion? It was the Tarbolton Bachelors Club is where he truly received a proper education.

Just off the Highway to Rochester, MinnesotaTwilight bounds softly forth on the grass.And the eyes of those two Indian poniesDarken with kindness.They have come gladly out of the willowsTo welcome my friend and me.We step over the barbed wire into the pastureWhere they have been grazing all day, alone.They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happinessThat we have come.They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.There is no loneliness like theirs.At home once more,They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,For she has walked over to meAnd nuzzled my left hand.She is black and white,Her mane falls wild on her forehead,And the light breeze moves me to caress her long earThat is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.Suddenly I realizeThat if I stepped out of my body I would breakInto blossom.

It's awfully considerate of you to think of me hereAnd I'm much obliged to you for making it clearThat I'm not here.And I never knew the moon could be so bigAnd I never knew the moon could be so blueAnd I'm grateful that you threw away my old shoesAnd brought me here instead dressed in redAnd I'm wondering who could be writing this song.I don't care if the sun don't shineAnd I don't care if nothing is mineAnd I don't care if I'm nervous with youI'll do my loving in the winter.And the sea isn't greenAnd I love the queenAnd what exactly is a dreamAnd what exactly is a joke.

Well, I don’t know, but I’ve been toldThe streets in heaven are lined with goldI ask you how things could get much worseIf the Russians happen to get up there firstWowee! pretty scary!

Now, I’m liberal, but to a degreeI want ev’rybody to be freeBut if you think that I’ll let Barry GoldwaterMove in next door and marry my daughterYou must think I’m crazy!I wouldn’t let him do it for all the farms in Cuba

Well, I set my monkey on the logAnd ordered him to do the DogHe wagged his tail and shook his headAnd he went and did the Cat insteadHe’s a weird monkey, very funky

I sat with my high-heeled sneakers onWaiting to play tennis in the noonday sunI had my white shorts rolled up past my waistAnd my wig-hat was falling in my faceBut they wouldn’t let me on the tennis court

Now I got a friend who spends his lifeStabbing my picture with a bowie knifeDreams of strangling me with a scarfWhen my name comes up he pretends to barfI’ve got a million friends!

Now they asked me to read a poemAt the sorority sisters’ homeI got knocked down and my head was swimmin’I wound up with the Dean of WomenYippee! I’m a poet, and I know itHope I don’t blow it

I’m gonna grow my hair down to my feet so strangeSo I look like a walking mountain rangeAnd I’m gonna ride into Omaha on a horseOut to the country club and the golf courseCarry The New York Times, shoot a few holes, blow their minds

Now you’re probably wondering by nowJust what this song is all aboutWhat’s probably got you baffled moreIs what this thing here is forIt’s nothingIt’s something I learned over in England

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -Only this, and nothing more.'